


Lay Dagger Dead Inside A Lonely Bed

by Princess_Aleera



Series: The Mute!Cas Verse [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Castiel can fix a lot, Castiel is better, Character death (Bobby), Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester is not great at dealing with loss, Fallen Castiel, Falling off the wagon with a bang, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Where Dean falls off the wagon.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>(Takes place 4 years after The Way Home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Centers around a character death, but nothing graphic; mentions of Hell-related trauma; alcohol poisoning; grief.
> 
> Cas is good at cleaning up Dean's messes, even though he doesn't need to much anymore.

This _gorgeous_ banner is made by [](http://xsnappapplex.livejournal.com/profile)[**xsnappapplex**](http://xsnappapplex.livejournal.com/) for the !verse:D

Castiel comes home smelling like dog spit. The shelter received not one, but two new dogs today, and though they were kind and non-aggressive dogs, their favorite thing had still seemed to be licking Castiel's face off. He hadn't minded all that much; he loves the animals at the shelter. Though he prefers playing with the kittens and cats in his lunch break – Castiel would have loved a cat as well as Turnpike, but Dean is allergic – he likes all the different animals in the shelter. Obviously. Otherwise it would have been a poor job choice.

His original thought when he opens the usually-unlocked front door of his house, is to slip into the shower and get clean before he does anything else. It's Friday, which both means Dean's day to cook dinner _and_ no work in the morning, and Castiel's body thrums with a pleased kind of tiredness – but all thoughts of this plan leave his mind the minute he steps into the house.

He doesn't have to step into the living room to know that something is very wrong. He smells it even in the hallway; a sickly sweet, wooden smell – mingled with the unmistakable smell of fresh vomit. Castiel barely takes off his shoes before he runs into the living room, but there he stops as if a paused video and just – just takes everything in.

Their couch, two years old, stained with yellow-green bile that steadily drips onto the soft carpet below. The shattered remains of Dean's old cellphone, in pieces, scattered across most of the room – as if it were thrown so hard it practically exploded when it hit the wall. There is even a phone-shaped dent in the wall at his right, Castiel dimly notices.

His favorite blanket, stained with sick and crumpled together, pulled over Dean's face and torso in the couch. Castiel can only see his legs; his usual jeans on, flecked and smelly like the rest of the living room, and with bare feet.

And on the table, an empty bottle of raspberry Sambuca. Castiel's stomach twists into a tight, painful knot.

Dean doesn't move when Castiel walks up to him; barely twitches when the blanket is removed. He looks... he looks terrible, Castiel notes with a dim feeling that resembles grief. His usually fresh face is pallid and sweaty, his closed eyes are rimmed wit red and salt from dried tears, and there are traces of puke on his cheek and in the corners of his mouth. He's not so much sleeping as unconscious, Castiel thinks, and bends down to make sure that his fiance is breathing like he should.

He is, luckily. Deep, gurgling breaths that puff the horrid stench directly into Castiel's nose, who gags a little despite himself. He reaches over to grasp Dean's shoulders, trying to fit a sick-free spot, and shakes him gently.

Dean's eyelashes don't even flutter.

A flare of frustration hits Castiel, like it does every now and then – a flare of _why can't I just talk like everyone else_ – but he clamps down on it and shakes Dean harder. Dean's head lolls, but there is no reaction. However much and fast Dean drank this bottle (Dean drank a bottle of liquor, Dean _drank_ ) and expelled most of it again, there is obviously enough alcohol left in his system to keep him out for a while longer.

Standing up with a twinge in his back, Castiel contemplates texting Sam. But this is in the middle of the exam period, and even if Sam was not in class right now, it is Friday afternoon – a part of the week he generally spends asleep to get back some of the rest he has missed during the week. Besides – Castiel doesn't know if he can tell him before he knows _why_. Dean has not drunk a drop of alcohol in five years; something big, something awful, must have happened for him to fall off the wagon so swiftly and brutally. Castiel looks at the sad remains of Dean's phone, and wishes he could find out for himself. The knowledge that most likely, someone he knows is dead (because death has never been something Dean handles well, and four years of domestic life will not have changed that) tortures Castiel.

But first things first.

When he tries, and fails, to rouse Dean, in the end he is forced to drag the ex-hunter out of the couch and through the living room. He isn't strong enough to carry his fiance, not _nearly_ strong enough, but he drags Dean through the room by his leg and makes sure that the Winchester's head doesn't bump into anything on the way. Castiel brings Dean to the bathroom; hoists him up and flips the sleeping man as gently as he can into the bathtub. Clutching the rails there, Castiel steps in with him, and starts taking the stained clothes off his man.

Dean groans once, low in his throat, but that is the only reaction Castiel's ministrations manage to get out of him. Castiel stuffs all the clothes in a heap behind Dean's head, so he is as comfortable as he _can_ be, curled up in a bathtub. Lowering the shower head and pointing it towards the drain instead of the sleeping man, Castiel turns on the shower. He checks the water temperature with his other hand, making sure that it is neither too hot nor cold. Only when it's pleasantly lukewarm does he steer the shower head towards Dean's legs. He rinses off the remains of sick, Dean's legs twitching from the water, and by the time Castiel is cleaning up his torso, Dean is starting to regain consciousness.

“Gnnnh,” he manages, blinking one eye half-open and flinching at the harsh bathroom light. He tries to turn to his side, but he can't seem to be able to on his own; his hand scrabbles weakly against the porcelain and his legs twitch. “Nnnnuh, naaauus,” he gurgles. His tongue sounds big in his mouth, making all the vowels wrong and gravel-like, but Castiel thinks he might try to say that he is still nauseous.

Placing the shower head back, so there is a rain of water falling onto them both, he leans down and helps Dean move onto his side. Castiel lifts his fiance's head, cradling the skull beneath the soft, wet, sticky hair and tilts Dean's head down a fraction. Dean instantly retches again, his body convulsing with the effort; hacking and coughing. But it is a good thing, Castiel can see; all that comes out is a mostly-clear, smelly liquid, which means that there isn't much left that needs to come out. He mouths soothing words at Dean and strokes his hair, and the remains are soon washed away by the water. Dean groans quietly – a lost sound. One of his hands seek blindly in thin-air before Castiel entangles their fingers, but Dean doesn't relax. Instead he feels around Castiel's hand, almost desperately, and his body – even half out of it – is tense like he is in physical pain.

It takes a moment for Castiel to understand what the man is wordlessly trying to convey. _Talk to me, Cas._

He is not angry; he doesn't feel like he has the right to be. Whatever made Dean pick up his old way of dealing with emotional loss, it must have been something absolutely terrible, and Castiel is sure Dean has reasons good enough. But his heart nearly breaks when Dean still feels around Castiel's fingers, desperate to see if the fallen angel will speak to him. Dean cannot open his eyes yet, but he is not so drunk that he is beyond communication.

 _It's okay, Dean,_ Castiel signs, slow and clear so he is sure the Winchester will understand. _Let's get you cleaned up and to bed. You can tell me later what happened._ When Dean relaxes minutely, but still clings to Castiel's hand, Castiel signs one more sentence. _I'm not angry, Dean._ When he leans down to press a kiss to Dean's wet brow, the Winchester no longer smells of vomit. Instead he smells mostly of water.

Castiel deems him clean enough and shuts off the shower, shedding his own, soaked clothes and leaving them in the bathtub. He grabs a few extra towels from their linen closet and spreads one of them out on the bathroom floor, like he dimly remembers Dean doing for him years ago, after Castiel had run away without shoes on. Castiel still bears the scars underneath his soles, but they are minor and they don't cause him any pain thanks to Dean's expertise back then.

Slowly, gently, Castiel moves Dean's sleeping body out of the bathtub and onto the floor. There he spreads his fiance out, grabbing the second towel and drying him from feet to hair. Dean sleeps through it all, sighing softly when Castiel dries his hair. Next, Castiel isn't sure what he can do. He still cannot carry Dean, but neither can he let him lie here on the warm, but hard tile floor. In the end, he has to drag Dean by his leg into their bedroom – keeping the towel under Dean's now naked frame so he will not suffer carpet burns. It is slower, now; Castiel's arms and legs burn with the effort, but he doesn't stop until Dean's body is sprawled next to their bed.

From there, it is almost easy. Hoisting Dean over his shoulder and lifting with his legs, not with his back (as Sam taught him when they first got Turnpike and Castiel's back started aching from when he would lift up the medium-sized dog) Castiel stands up and lets gravity pull him forward and down. He tumbles onto their bed, Dean with him, and Castiel gets him safe under the covers in the matter of minutes. Dean's brows furrow briefly, but Castiel smooths a finger over them and Dean instantly goes slack.

There. That is one part over.

Sighing, Castiel leaves Dean's sleeping form and goes to clean up. He finds a bucket beneath the kitchen sink, and fills it with soapy water. Then he begins to clean: the couch (though he will need to strip it and send the upholstery to a dry-cleaner tomorrow, at least it will not smell quite as much), the table, the living room carpet. Then, he washes the way between the couch and the bathroom, where he dragged Dean, before cleaning up the bathroom as well. He rinses off the wet clothes and hangs them to dry outside in the garden; they will need to be cleaned properly, but he doesn't have the energy to do laundry as well today and he doesn't want the clothes to grow moldy.

Finally, he rinses off the bucket and the rag he has used, and puts the clean bucket by Dean's side of the bed. Lighting a scented candle in the living room, it doesn't take too long before the nauseating smell transforms into something more pleasant. Castiel throws the empty glass bottle into the recycling bin, and makes himself a cup of coffee. He is exhausted.

Finding his phone on the table, Castiel sends Sam a text. _I think Dean heard some very bad news today. Have you heard anything?_ He doesn't expect an answer; Sam is probably still sleeping. But he deserves to know.

Someone dear to Dean has died. And it is someone that is close enough to the Winchester that he will lose himself, if only for a brief moment – but not someone so close to Castiel that Dean immediately contacts him. Based on this simple, yet fallible logic, Castiel thinks it is not anyone from Grass Valley. Dean would have told him immediately.

And as much as Castiel is loath to admit it, there is one person that fits all these criteria – and would explain how Dean reacted to the news.

His phone buzzes. _What bad news? How bad? I haven't heard anything,_ says Sam and Castiel sighs.

_I think... I think Bobby might be gone._

Sam doesn't reply to his text for a long time, and Castiel doesn't expect him to. Sam is calling Bobby's old numbers, for sure, checking up on Castiel's hunch – Castiel would do it himself, but it is so much easier for Sam to take a phone call than for Castiel to text all of Bobby's numbers. Instead he waits in the living room, hands clasped around his rapidly cooling cup of coffee, watching the scented candle as it slowly but surely burns down. The smell of pine fills the room, Dean's quiet snores can be heard from the bedroom, and Castiel is so unbelievably tired.

It takes twenty minutes for Sam to respond, and the text is unusually brief. _You were right. I'm coming down to you tomorrow._

Castiel reads the things Sam didn't say – 'please take care of my brother until I get here', 'I'm gonna help you', 'jesus, Cas, Bobby's _gone_ '.

 _I'm here_ , Castiel writes back, and hopes Sam hears all the things _he_ doesn't say.

Then he blows out the candle, pours the rest of the coffee out in the sink, and goes to bed. Dean doesn't so much as stir when Castiel crawls in beneath him, and Castiel lets exhaustion drag him down swift and deep. He awakes at around three in the morning, when Dean dry-heaves into the bucket without managing to dispel any more liquid from his body. Castiel crawls up to him and puts a hand on his neck, steady and sure, and simply waits until Dean's stomach finishes convulsing. When Dean utters something between a heave and a sob, Castiel crawls out of bed and into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights as he finds an unused roll of toilet paper. He returns to the bed and wipes Dean's mouth first; then his brow and temples. Feverish spasms are wracking Dean's body, and his eyes are glassy when they focus on Castiel's. But they do focus.

“Cas,” Dean croaks and looks so terribly lost. Castiel puts down the paper and pulls his fiance in; wraps his arms around Dean's bigger frame so the Winchester can curl into himself and take as much of Castiel's comfort as he can.

“I'm sorry,” Dean mumbles into his night t-shirt, words still groggy from the alcohol, but Castiel just shakes his head. There is nothing to be sorry for.

He cards his hands through Dean's sweaty hair, and the Winchester shivers and breathes deeply – as if Castiel is his main source of air. He doesn't speak again, and after a while, the trembles subside enough to allow him to slip back into sleep. The alcohol, once Dean's best friend after Sam, is now his enemy. His body doesn't appreciate the two of them trying to reconcile, and Castiel imagines it must feel a little like his first human experience with alcohol; when he saw how Dean grew numb under its influence and wanted nothing more than to feel numb himself. It was what had prompted Dean into quitting in the first place, Dean has told him once, two years ago. Remembering that he, Dean, was the one who had poured alcohol down Castiel's throat when it wasn't even a week since he had lost his Grace. Castiel's body had reacted to the strong alcohol in much the same way as Dean's does now.

Dean lies with his head on Castiel's legs, curled up like a small child, and sleeps restlessly. Castiel manages to maneuver himself into a more comfortable position eventually, and with one hand still in Dean's hair, he goes back to sleep.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

“Pack of werewolves,” Dean says. “North Dakota.” He hasn't spoken a word to Castiel since last night, after his last bout of detoxication. His voice is still rough from the abuse it has endured during the last twenty-four hours; scorched with liquor first, then stomach bile, and today, Dean is ill. He lies in bed, as their couch currently lacks upholstery, under thick blankets, shivering. His forehead is scorching hot, and he hasn't been able to eat anything today; only drink some mouthfuls of Coca Cola to help with the delayed nausea. He has spent most of the day staring at the ceiling with an air of equal parts grief, self-disgust and guilt, and Castiel has left him alone for a few hours to let him get past the worst of his hangover.

Castiel looks up now, from his sketchbook. He is coloring a piece he finished a few days ago, of Turnpike playing in the garden. She lives with Sam now; Sam and his new girlfriend at Stanford. Castiel doesn't sign anything; just tilts his head in question even if he understands.

“Bobby,” Dean says, his voice scratching over the familiar syllables, and looks away. “Him and Garth. They thought – they thought it was only gonna be one or two, but these ones traveled in goddamn _packs_ and –” he cuts himself off, clenching his fists and taking a deep breath before he continues. “Garth counted nine of'em. They took down 'least four before – before. They tried gettin' away, and Garth's – Garth's alive, at least, though one of the fucking mutts ripped open his stomach, 'parently. But Bobby – he wasn't fast enough.”

Castiel moves closer; close enough to put a hand on Dean's shoulder. For a moment, Dean's eyes flash dangerously, as if he's about to push Castiel away or throw himself in the opposite direction, like a caged animal – but it passes and he relaxes into the touch. Castiel takes the permission for what it is and curls up next to his fiance, above the covers, tucking his head under Dean's jaw. He tangles one of his hands with Dean's own and squeezes it in a silent _I'm sorry._

“Yeah,” Dean rasps to the silence.

It must have been Garth who delivered the news, Castiel thinks. And it is strange, and sad, that the older hunter is so suddenly gone. Bobby has spent Christmas here with them since they moved in – apart from last year, when he was ill and couldn't travel and they visited him on New Year's Eve instead – and it will be strange next winter not to have a seat and plate ready for him. Castiel would usually bake Bobby a number of different pies, and Bobby's eyes had warmed up more with every year when he noticed Castiel and Dean's small touches of affection. The old hunter had never spoken up about it; never said a word, but he had approved of Dean's life choice and Castiel knows how _incredibly_ important that has been to Dean. Castiel does not think Dean would have left him if Bobby had disapproved of their relationship, but it has been a great relief for the Winchester that his parental figure had been happy with him. _For_ him.

Dean has, in essence, just lost his father for the second time. Castiel remembers, as a shard of his angelic knowledge from pulling Dean's soul back together, what happened after John Winchester's death. The wreck of Dean's Impala that he had taken to with a crow bar; smashed her windows, abused and hurt the most precious thing he had. His strongest link to his father.

When remembering this, Castiel will count himself lucky if downing a bottle of Sambuca is the worst thing Dean does in his stages of grief.

But maybe it will be different this time. Dean doesn't have to be the strong hunter, now; there is no need for him to hide his emotions from Castiel, push them down until they resurface in a fit of deathly rage. If Dean needs comfort, Castiel is so very willing to give it to him. There is nowhere they need to travel; no Apocalypse they need to get through before Dean can focus on getting through this.

 _What do you need?_ he asks now, signing while his hand still rests in Dean's trembling, damp palm. He knows Dean read it, though it takes the man minutes to formulate an answer.

“I dunno, Cas,” he says and presses a light – apologetic, almost – kiss to the top of Castiel's head. “I'm just – goddammit, I'm angry at the idiot, y'know? He should'a quit hunting years ago; let guys like Garth do the grunt work and stayed in his house. Played FBI.”

_He was never going to quit, Dean. He was Bobby._

“I know!” Dean snaps, but Castiel doesn't startle. It's not him Dean is angry at. “I... know. And I guess – I guess when it happened, I'm... shit, I dunno. I don't wish anyone the kind of death Bobby got, by fucking dogs –” and he shudders now, bodily, as if he knows – and of course he does. Dean has died like that himself. Castiel closes his eyes. It must be such a cruel burden, to know exactly how his father figure hurt in the last moments of his life.

“But I'm glad he went down fighting,” Dean manages eventually. “In a way. He – Bobby deserved that. Going down swingin'.”

Castiel nods in acquiescence. _A warrior's death,_ he signs and thinks about Balthazar and Gabriel – as he so often does.

“Yeah,” Dean says hoarsely, and breathes harshly into Castiel's hair for a minute's time before speaking again. “There's no – I mean, Garth's already burned the body. Had to, y'know. So there's no... I dunno, ceremony. Bobby probably wouldn't have wanted one anyway.”

 _We can visit his resting place,_ Castiel signs, very careful not to use a sign that means 'grave'. _I think Sam would like that too._

Dean nods. “Yeah, I s'pose he would.” Another silent minute. Dean and Castiel's hands are easily tangled, Dean rubbing his thumb against the band on Castiel's finger. “Sammy coming over later?”

Castiel nods. _An hour._

“I should get outta bed,” Dean grunts and moves, but Castiel turns to push his chest back down, shaking his head.

_You're ill._

“Bullshit, Cas,” Dean sighs, even though they both know he's lying. “I'm just hungover.”

Castiel shakes his head again. _You have alcohol poisoning, Dean – or an equivalent. You. Are. Sick._ He pushes at Dean's torso until the Winchester obediently lies back down, looking part annoyed and part relieved. Dean closes his eyes and groans quietly, another feverish tremble shuddering through his body. Castiel places his hand on Dean's temple; feels his fiance's scorching warmth against his cool palm. Dean murmurs something unintelligible and grateful, his eyes fluttering.

Castiel leans down and mouths _sleep_ against Dean's fever-pink cheek. And Dean, for once, does exactly like he's told.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

He is still asleep when Sam arrives. Castiel greets the younger Winchester with a signed _I'm so sorry_ , and Sam merely nods before moving in close enough that Castiel can hug him. Castiel does; stands on his toes so they are more or less equal height, draping his arms around Sam's frame as far as he can, and squeezes tight. Sam, like Castiel, thrives in this kind of comfort; physical, reassuring touch. As always, Sam sighs a little in what Castiel has dubbed 'relief', and hugs Castiel back – albeit gently. Castiel knows himself that his human body is fragile, even by human standards. They have not been able to exactly pinpoint why, but it is probable that Jimmy's body being a vessel for this long – not to mention dying twice – has done some kind of permanent damage to the tissue. It is not a big problem, and Castiel likes his body well enough, but he does notice that his bones break easier, small bouts of sickness bring him down faster, and for longer periods, than Dean or Sam.

Castiel brews a cup of decaffeinated coffee for himself and Sam, the latter sneaking into the bedroom to check up on his brother. Dean sleeps fitfully, his body still sweating out toxins and generally trying to work through the withdrawal symptoms as fast as it can.

“The couch?” Sam asks when he comes into the kitchen, grabbing the mug Castiel hands him before they both get seated by the larger living room table. Their naked couch is behind them, looking forlorn without its usual upholstery.

 _Vomit_ , Castiel signs, and does not say anything more about it.

Sam's eyes clear in understanding, and he sighs. “I never thought Dean would actually – I mean, he's been clean for years now.”

 _He will be again,_ Castiel assures him. _One lapse is not a problem._

“No, I know, just...” Sam's eyes grow misty. “ _Bobby_ , you know?”

Castiel nods and squeezes Sam's wrist. Sam clears his throat and stares at his mug for a while. “How is – I mean, apart from the... drunken..ness,” Sam says.

 _He grieves_ , Castiel signs.

“I'm really glad he's got you,” Sam says quietly. “I couldn't – I mean, if it were him and me... He always locks himself up so goddamn tight and shuts me out. I don't think he'll do the same to you.” He takes a hesitant sip of his coffee.

 _I hope not,_ Castiel replies.

Neither of them wake Dean up. There is no particular rush, after all – they can leave when they wish, to visit Bobby's new grave. Sam sleeps in a motel that night, and Castiel holds Dean through the new bouts of fever that spring up before sunrise. With them come the nightmares; a mixture of old and new. It has been a long time when Castiel could simply look into the Winchester's mind and see what images plagued him at night, but Dean is more vocal tonight than he usually is. He calls out for John, for his mother; for Sam and for Castiel, names of people he could not save. “Jo, run,” he whispers once, flinching in his sleep, and not waking even when Castiel squeezes his shoulder and brings his fiance closer. Dean is held down by his own withdrawal; forced to relieve old memories as well as invented scenarios.

When Dean whimpers a word that sounds very much like _Bobby_ , Castiel lays his head down on Dean's chest. He concentrates on keeping calm, on offering comfort to Dean in the midst of his mind's darkness.

Dean jolts awake some time around six in the morning, causing Castiel to almost fall to the floor, frantically clawing at the skin of his chest as if he expects something to be on it, ripping him apart. His eyes are dark and wild, his breath consisting of heaving breaths, and when he realizes where and when he is, he freezes with his nails still digging into the skin on his chest. Castiel sits up and gently takes his hands away, noticing that already, small crescent marks are appearing on the tanned skin after the Winchester's nails. He kisses Dean's knuckles.

Dean blinks, sluggishly escaping his own mind, and turns to stare at Castiel like he has never seen the man before. “I,” Dean says and his voice falters. His eyes flit around the room, noting every exit – the salt lines built into the house, and the Devil's Trap hidden underneath the white ceiling paint – once again a hunter. Only when he seems sure that everything is as it should be, that he is _safe_ , does he try to speak again. “Nightmare,” he says dumbly and rubs at his face. “Hellhound.”

 _I know_ , Castiel signs and keeps the Winchester's gaze.

“Bobby-” Dean still can't finish the sentence.

_I know._

“Goddamn dogs,” Dean hitches, blinking rapidly. Castiel sneaks a hand up to his neck and brings their mouths together. It is a reassurance and apology all in one, the kiss. And Dean breathes into it, eyes squeezed tightly shut as a stray tear travels down his cheek. When Castiel rubs it away with his thumb, without the kiss ending, more tears follow. But only a few. After minutes of sharing the same breath, Dean's face pinched in pain, the ex-hunter leans back with a sniffle and wipes absently at his face.

“Sorry I woke you, Cas,” he says gruffly, and, when Castiel merely shakes his head, huffs. “You know what I mean.”

Castiel kisses his jaw once in reply, before tugging the man down. Dean follows, settling back against the pillows and drawing Castiel in. His fever is dying down, and though his skin is still damp, the bed isn't soggy as it was a few hours ago. They are over the worst part.

Dean falls asleep with his face pressed into the hollow of Castiel's shoulder, and Castiel can't help but be proud of him.

~*~


End file.
